Wow! That was a lot faster than I thought. Ladies and gentlemen, you can now get to my blog by going to www.thecowshow.com.

Big deal. So what. Who cares?

Well, the answer is probably nobody but me, but that's fine. Ever since I started the blog I knew I would eventually get to the point where I could have my own domain name instead of having to type in blahblahblah.blogspot.com. When I first set the blog up, I went through a list of cow names but found out that they were all taken. The ones that were available were redundant and stupid, like moocowmoomoocowgoesmoo.blogspot.com. Ehhhh no thanks. So I picked the signature name that I used when I shot off emails to the rugby team, AKA Cow Daddy Fat Sacks. This was all fun and games until I felt reserved about sharing the name of my blog to people that may not really get that concept. In light of that, thecowshow is a little bit safer. All bets are out the window after one goes to the site, but at least it's a starting point.

So since I am on a history lesson kick, I might as well clue everyone in that might not know be so well as to where the whole "Cow" thing comes from. I may have written about this before, and if I did, I'm sowwwwwy. Okay. So. Hi there. My real name is Kyle. But a lot of people call me Cow. This goes back to circa 1995 when the nickname was derived from the pronunciation of the name Kyle, which sounded like Cal, or Cow, from my friend's parents. I'll go ahead and say this, even though I shouldn't have to, but my friend's parents are black (he is too) and black people cannot say Kyle. They say Cow. Sometimes Cal, but it sounds like Cow. There is no racism here. It is merely a fact of life, and one that I can say always brightens my day when I hear it and has gotten us to where we are today. I am a better man for it.

Continuing on the history of the name Cow, the next landmark came during one of the very first weeks of my freshman year at UD. The first week of rugby practice had come and gone, and I found myself along with my fellow rookies at a rugby sausage fest. When I got to the gathering, I was greeted by some of the older rugby players who were instituting a rite of passage by giving all of the rookies a nickname. In their hands, they harvested a fat black Sharpie, and on our sweaty foreheads, a nickname would be written that would seal our fate in time forever. I fell to the back of the line and cautiously waited my turn. There seemed to be a barnyard theme going on for the naming ceremony, as some of my peers were named "Goose," "Panda," and "Ox." When I got to the front of the line, I clearly stated, "Cow. Write Cow on my forehead now. Fucking do it." Luckily for me, my wish was granted. These names were sacred and would stick to us for the next four years. My first and last name was shit. Nobody knew or cared. I was Cow. My social security number and birth certificate did not matter. Cow was all that mattered. To this day, I thank God that I did not get "Cum Dumpster" written on my forehead. I'm not sure www.cumdumpster.com would fly over too well, and besides, it's already taken.

To bring it full circle, one of the definitions of Kyle is Scottish for "cows grazing on a hill." That is the history of Cow. On a personal note, if you are ever put in a situation where you have to buy me a present, please do not give me anything that is cow-related. I'm not one of those cow fanatics that cover my house in cow spotted bullshit.